Page 22 of Shackled to the Orc

“You’re the one who’s scared,” I whisper, and my shaking hands lower, tracing the ridges of his abs, a shiver running through my body as I cannot stop myself, knowing that what I’m doing will change me forever, that he will ruin me for any other man, but as terrified as I am, my lust is controlling me, this primal wave of need that makes me feel so empty, so alone, craving his huge arms pulling me tight against his body. His power is washing through me, overwhelming, this unyielding strength that reassures me in the chaos of my life.

He growls, then leans in closer, his lips pressing against mine as he kisses me, ravenous, sending electricity through my veins. His huge tongue swirls against mine, and I am brought into the moment completely, life melting away, until only he exists, and his hunger, his cock surging up as I slide my fingers down his taut abs, until I reach his throbbing member. I try to wrap my hand around it, but he’s too thick, and his cock spurts pre-cum like a faucet, thick, creamy liquid coating the shaft and his hand, as if designed to force that monstrous thing past my innocence, to claim me forever.

His fist slams against the wall, thudding heavily as he breaks off the kiss. My legs shake, and I’m weak, staring up at him as he pulls back and stalks out of the bedroom, leaving me confused, so alone, unable to understand him.

He slams the door behind him. It makes me start, and I fall to the floor, all the stress and confusion returning a thousandfold, and I feel completely hopeless, with no idea what to do.

12

KHAN

Istorm out, enraged at myself, and nearly run into Garvin. He glances down at my obvious arousal, then up at me.

“I’m headed to the city,” he says, completely ignoring my throbbing cock that feels so heavy and full it could burst, the touch of her nimble fingers still fresh in my memory. “Want me to get something for your lady love? Chocolate usually smooths things over, in my experience.”

Any other man and I’d put my fist through his head. Garvin’s known me eight years. We’re not friends, but he’s the closest thing I have to one anymore. He’s the only one who wouldn’t turn tail seeing me this pissed off.

I think back to a comment she made, when she was offering me stillroot for the pain in my leg.

“She mentioned tea. Not bitter. That ruins the taste.”

“On it.” He tries to bite back his words, but can’t resist continuing.

“I’ve stayed alive a long time not butting my head into other people’s business, but I’m pretty loose right now,” says Garvin, patting his flask in his breast pocket. “That’s a good woman there. Who knows, maybe Shug would sell your contract over to some pitmaster in the Capital, you could work as a trainer, take her with you.”

It’s custom. When gladiators get injured or age out of fights, if they’ve served well they get moved into new roles. Some even earn their freedom.

“Just get the tea.” I limp past him, each step making my knee grind, the spell she has on me weakening. When her scent is in my nostrils, my thoughts are consumed by raging need, a volcanic lust for her, for life.

Now, as I make my way up the stone hallway, my pain returns. My left arm is stiffening, and I wonder if my next fight will be my last. I am up against an orc from the far southern regions, plucked up from the desert. I’ve heard tale of him. He fights with a five-foot-long curved blade, a scimitar that could cut chunks off my body if I’m slow.

When I gave myself to the pits, I knew that the end of my life would be staring up at a glinting blade. I’ve thought of the moment endlessly.

I have never been felled. I have never been on my back, waiting for judgment. One day, it is inevitable. The people flock to my fights, put up against the toughest competitors, screaming for me, others filled with bloodlust for my downfall. They want to see how long I can hold on to my position of champion of Corwinhold.

They want to see who will take me down.

I march onto the sands of the training ground. I yell at the three men chatting like they’re gossiping at the market, and they pick up their weapons as I size up Orin. At 6’5, the half-orc is the closest I’ll find to my foe.

The tension in my head is back, the constant, incessant throbbing at my temples, the headache that has been plaguing me since my jaw was crushed. I crave her fingers against my neck working into the knots, her gentle, soothing touch.

“Orin! You against me!” I bark out, and the half-orc turns, drawing his blade.

Our bodies slam together with a heavy, meaty crunch, both of us grunting as the pain washes over me, centering me. It belongs to me, and I to it, until I am released by death.

13

MAYA

I’ve been sitting on the floor, listening to the sounds of wooden weapons slamming against each other, of grunts and groans of pain, and I feel so useless, so out of place in this cage, when I pull myself up. I leave the room, looking down the long hallway. All the gladiators are out in the training grounds, so I muster my courage, and try the door across the hall. It’s unlocked, and I peer in. Just as I thought—I didn’t hear a peep from across the hall.

I managed to create a makeshift hospital in my home back in the village. Previously, people would be treated in Mariel’s little hut, but I didn’t want to take it over and leave my mom alone. The room in front of me is small, not much more than a bed, empty of all belongings, but there is a fireplace which can be used to boil water to sterilize instruments.

It would be better if I could get closer to the training ground. I close the door softly and check the rooms down the hallway. Some are in use, others empty, with most of the gladiators packed into the common mess hall and dormitories. I guess Shug holds these private rooms like a carrot on a stick for the fighters. I have to hold my nose when I open the door into what must be Garvin’s room, because he has a bathtub, but it’s filled with clear liquid with a tube running off it and into a big copper container and it must be some makeshift distillery. It’s near pure alcohol, and it will be perfect for sterilization.

There’s an empty room near the hallway that leads to the entrance of the training ground. There’s a barred window, that looks out to the grounds, and as I map out how the field hospital will look, I find myself walking to the window and peering out.

Khan is up against the two half-orcs. They circle him warily, long, wooden swords in their hands, darting forward and probing. I wince as one of their swords strikes him under his left arm, but he keeps it up, protecting his face as he pivots, all his weight on his injured knee, and he buckles for a second. The two half-orcs strike at once, slamming their wooden blades into his chest, striking him hard, and I have to look away, sick to my stomach.

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